Lemon Tree
by prodigaldaughter13
Summary: Lemon tree very pretty, and the lemon flower is sweet, but the fruit of the poor lemon, is impossible to eat. Written for the Let's Write Sherlock Challenge 3.
1. Chapter 1

When Sherlock was very small, and Mycroft smaller than he now is, their father told them that he and Mycroft were going out into the orchard for lunch, and Sherlock couldn't come this time. Of course, Sherlock, being the five-year-old ball of mischief and attitude he was, took this as a challenge, and followed Mycroft and Father from a safe distance until they settled under the lemon trees.

Mycroft had recently turned fifteen, and had suddenly shown far less interest in his studies and little brother and much more interest in the neighbor's pretty daughter. Sherlock thought it was stupid, but Mycroft just ignored him and spent more time in his room scribbling notes to send next door. Naturally, Sherlock would steal the notes and read them, but they were full of words he didn't particularly like, words that sat on his tongue like the cough syrup Mummy gave him sometimes, too thick and falsely sweet.

Father began to speak and Sherlock left his thoughts in favour of listening in, even though Mummy said it was Not Good to listen when people didn't know you were. Sherlock always figured that if someone was talking, they should assume someone could hear.

"Mycroft, there's something you should know, and I think you're old enough to hear it now." Sherlock had never heard Father sound so serious, and considering serious was his default state of being, it was rather strange. "All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage." Here he paused and looked Mycroft in the eye, holding the young man as an equal. Sherlock was instantly jealous, wishing his father would look at _him_ like that for once, or even _look_ at him as something other than a nuisance.

His older brother looked a little crushed, but their father continued talking. "Love is like the lemon tree, Mycroft. The tree is lovely, the flower is beautiful and fragrant of scent, but when the lemon reaches maturity it is always bitter and unpalatable. Remember this, and do not forget it." Father then rose, clapped a hand on Mycroft's shoulder, and left the young man sitting alone beneath the trees with his disbelieving younger brother hiding just a few feet away.

_When, years later, a woman took what small amount of heart Sherlock had to give and broke it, Sherlock sought Mycroft's council._

_"Look at them," Sherlock had said, "They all care so much. Do you ever wonder if there's something wrong with us?" He already knew what Mycroft would say, what he had always said when Sherlock would question anything in regards to sentiment._

_"All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock," Mycroft had recited._

_Sherlock did not display any outward emotion, but privately, he finally agreed._


	2. Chapter 2

Nearly thirty years since Sherlock first heard the sentiment lecture and its tenterhooks were still sunk deep into his mind. Irene had pulled a few of the hooks away, and ultimately it had proven to be a fruitless endeavor. He had actually experienced grief at her passing, his mind had been clouded and less sharp than usual until he had realized his mistake. Upon the realization, he had quickly shut the emotions out, but it was too late. The door in his mind palace had been opened, and now several unsavoury feelings poured through it like so many uncouth pub patrons. He was entirely unable to do anything beyond lounge about the flat and be irritated towards John.

John had become a particular target of his since The Woman had come through and torn their symbiotic relationship to shreds and left a hollow façade behind instead. Most of his wayward emotions pertained to John in some way or another, and so he aimed all of his wit and condescension at John to make himself feel a bit better. It wasn't working exactly as he'd planned.

After a particularly rude comment in regards to his latest attempt at a girlfriend, John finally snapped. He clicked his laptop shut and stomped to the sofa until he loomed over Sherlock's reclining figure. "What, precisely, is wrong?" he demanded.

Sometimes when John got angry it was an explosion, but other times it was like this. He would become completely self-contained, all of his fury and anger charging the air around him as he stood still as a statue at parade rest in the center of it. Sherlock found it fascinating, simply because it was one of the few things left that could scare him. As John stood boiling Sherlock observed him quietly, trying to keep his emotions from clouding his observation. However, he was unsuccessful. Each nuance of expression Sherlock noticed came tinged with a small reflection on John the man instead of John the colleague. The difference was a small one, but it was enough of a difference to set Sherlock's nerves on fire.

"If you didn't _think_ so loudly, I might actually be able to concentrate," Sherlock bit out, aiming the words like a weapon towards John. John stared down at him, anger boiling behind his eyes as he clenched his jaw. He opened his mouth as if to speak when Sherlock cut him off. "Oh, never_mind_."

"I'm thinking too loud? Sherlock, since when has my _thinking_ ever bothered you?" John asked, sounding more exasperated than angry at this point, but Sherlock wasn't fooled. The anger was there, it was just currently overpowered by confusion.

It wasn't John's thinking that bothered Sherlock so much as it was what he did _while_ thinking. It was John's habit of licking his lips when his mind was elsewhere, a way of keeping a tether to his body perhaps. Or perhaps he simply knew somehow that it drove Sherlock half-mad with want. And this time he had been so far into thought he'd actually began _biting_ his bottom lip, pressing his teeth into the soft flesh and just leaving them there, precisely where Sherlock wanted his own lips to be.

Now he was standing above Sherlock, lips still moist and flushed with blood and looking angry and tired and-

To this day Sherlock will vehemently deny that this is how it happened. John, on the other hand, will tease him about it as often as physically possible, referencing it when they first wake in the morning and he has to rouse Sherlock with tiny tickles and shoves, when they're on a case and John feels Sherlock needs to tone it down a peg or two, or just when John is feeling sweet and nostalgic. Essentially what went on was Sherlock completely lost control for approximately eight seconds, which was just enough time for him to surge up in an attempt to capture John's lips with his own.

In actuality, his missed, and succeeded in only slamming their foreheads together with a resounding 'clonk'. Sherlock reeled back, with what was evidently a suitably stunned look on his face, because all the tension melted out of John's body as he started to laugh. While Sherlock sank into a ball of shame, curled on the corner of the sofa, John had to settle next to him to catch his breath. Each time John would get himself under control, he'd look at Sherlock and start laughing again.

Sherlock tugged his knees up to his chest in embarrassment and buried his face in his knees to keep from seeing the mirth on John's face. The laughter petered out and there was a sudden, gentle pressure against Sherlock's hair.

"Are you alright?" John asked, tilting Sherlock's face up. Sherlock stared back defiantly, hating that even after his embarrassment he still couldn't take his eyes away from John's face. John stared levelly at him, obviously awaiting an answer, so Sherlock nodded curtly, pulled his face from John's grasp, and placed it back upon his knees.

"Hey, I didn't mean to laugh at you," John said, and there was the foreign sensation of having arms wrapped around him, tugging Sherlock against John until he was tucked gently in the man's embrace. "It's just… you're normally so… elegant, I guess, and it surprised me." Sherlock pretended to ignore him, but he couldn't resist –not snuggling, but _moving_- closer to John. The ex-soldier held him closer, and he became aware of a gentle pattering of pressure against his hair. A moment later, he realized it was John, peppering small kisses over his curls in form of comfort.

Could it be that Sherlock had in fact been remiss in his assumptions? That perhaps John _did_ return his feelings? Not that he'd even officially recognized these _urges_ as feelings just yet, but what if John was in possession of the same? Data would certainly suggest it; they were, after all, snuggled on the couch together – a position Sherlock would deny to Judgement Day under any other circumstance- and John was in fact kissing him, even if it was just his hair.

Yet still Sherlock felt a strange nervousness in his stomach, much like he imagined a rabbit felt when it realized something was coming near it. And the image of himself as a rabbit, as _prey_ is what made him pull away from John, part in irritation at his own weakness, part in anger at John for making him weak.

But John did not seem to understand that Sherlock intended to be angry with him. Instead, John smiled happily as Sherlock sat up and composed himself. Before Sherlock could say something snappish about his flatmate's cheerful expression, John darted forward and pressed a chaste kiss to his lips and then moving back just as quickly, so Sherlock only processed the briefest moment of contact between them.

He stared at John in shock for a long moment before John started apologizing.

"Sorry, sorry, that was- just delete it, if you like," John stammered, his face flushing tomato red.

Finally, Sherlock found his voice. "The only thing you need apologize for," he said lowly, "is not doing that again, and as soon as possible." At his words, John beamed, and leaned forward once more. This time, Sherlock met him in the middle. This time, nobody got any bruises that they didn't want.


End file.
